


The First Horcrux

by ponderingthedoctor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Magical Accidents, Major Character Injury, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Painting, Seer Moaning Myrtle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25435207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderingthedoctor/pseuds/ponderingthedoctor
Summary: “Maybe he murdered Myrtle; that would’ve done everyone a favor. . . .” -Ron WeasleyWhen Tom Riddle ordered his basilisk to strike maybe it wasn't a random coincidence that Myrtle happened to be crying in that particular bathroom. Plagued with strange dreams she doesn't understand and constantly bringing into motion paintings of her visions, in another "life" Myrtle knew a just a little too much. Maybe not enough to save the day, maybe not enough to save herself, but certainly enough to be noticed...by all the wrong sorts. New to the Wizarding World in the midst of Grindewald's reign of terror, Myrtle must balance learning about an entirely new culture, the rampant bullying and prejudice, and the feeling that something isn't quite right with that Riddle boy. But will her efforts be enough?
Relationships: Moaning Myrtle/Alphard Black
Kudos: 1





	The First Horcrux

**Author's Note:**

> Do not own that wizarding world!

_ The Farthest Bedroom on the Left  _

_ 2098 Scarsdale Place, Kensington,  _

_ London, England  _

_ July 30th 1937  _

  
  


A flash of green light eclipsed her vision, and with a gasp she sat up in bed. In her chest, her heart beat at a gallop and she sucked in great gasps of air. For a moment, she felt as though she were at the bottom of a lake, trapped in her sheets and suffocating, unable to see, unable to swim up. Her hand shot out to snatch her glasses from her night table, and she fumbled for a moment putting them on, almost stabbing herself in the eye. It didn’t help. Less blurry darkness was still darkness. Only the faintest pale light came in through her window from the moon, and it hardly provided any relief. 

There! A shadow moved across the room and she let out a whimper. The monster! From her dream! It was going to kill her! Torn between being frozen with fear and screaming in terror, the little girl’s decision was taken from her when another shape shifted in the inky black of her room. 

“MUMMMMMYYY!” There was a crash from the other room and she repeated her desperate cries. “MUMMMMYYY!” With a great ruckus, the door of her room burst open, flooding the space with light from the hallway. 

“Myrtle, dearest, what is it?” Father’s eyes were wild, searching the room for a threat. One hand white-knuckle gripped his rifle from the war and he was breathing almost as heavily as his daughter. Behind him, his wife stood, hands clasped fretfully, peering into the room over his shoulder. Myrtle, unable to answer in her hysteria, merely shook her head back and forth, garbled sobs escaping her now at the relief of seeing her parents. 

Determining that it was safe to enter, Frank Warren waved his wife into the room, still keeping a firm grip on his gun. For safety’s sake, he told himself, and not the bone chilling way his daughter’s screams had woken him and Ruth. 

“Oh, darling,” Ruth Warren gushed as she floated across the room toward Myrtle. Sweeping aside the sheets, she bundled the distraught girl into her arms, rocking her gently back and forth. The young girl buried her face in the silk dress robe of her mother, allowing the cool fabric to soothe her heated cheeks. Ruth’s smell, a combination of gardenia and bath salts, was a powerful cure-all and it only took a few more moments before Myrtle was calm enough to explain what had happened. 

“—and there were these woods all around me and I was being chased and they were getting closer and closer and closer and I knew they shouldn’t catch me but there was this flash of green and it  _ hurt _ and then I was falling and, and, and—“ she subsided into quiet sniffles, using a sleeve of her pajamas to wipe the snot that trickled down her face. A headache from crying was already starting to form. 

“Oh, pumpkin, it was just a dream,” Mother wiped the moisture from Myrtle’s face as best she could, dropping a kiss on her brow. “A horrible dream, nothing more.” 

“But it was, it was so scary—“ Tears started to form in her big brown eyes, and Ruth shot a pleading glance at her husband. Frank, rarely called upon to deal with child rearing, crossed the room uncertainly. 

“Now, listen here, Myrtle,” He picked his words carefully. “You’re growing up, getting to be a big girl now. Soon you’ll be off in the real world,” Frank was starting to hit his stride, growing more confident in his speech. “It’s time for you to stop these hysterics. It was just a dream.” 

“But it HURT—“ the young girl’s voice was shrill. 

“Now stop that! No crying!” Her father’s earlier confidence was slipping at the threatened waterworks. 

“Frank!” Ruth cut in. 

“Here!” The middle-aged man handed off his rifle to his daughter, practically shoving it in her hands. “Feel the weight of that gun?” It was, indeed, too heavy for Myrtle to carry and it was only her father’s grip on it that kept it from clattering to the floor. She gave a shallow nod. “That gun killed ten Germans in the war—“

“Frank!”

“—let me finish Ruthy! Now, that gun there killed ten Germans in the war. It protects this house! You’re like this gun,” He gestured at it, “There will be no more crying under my roof. You’ll go back to sleep and give those bastards what for! Kill those bad dreams!” At the end of his speech, Frank ran a hand over his mustache, smoothing it, with a thoughtful and almost-proud look. Ruth merely shook her head back and forth, astounded.

“But daddy, I don’t  _ want  _ to kill anyone!” Myrtle wailed.

“Oh, pumpkin, I didn’t mean—“ Her father waved his hands as if to ward off the oncoming storm. “I didn’t mean—“

“I  _ can’t  _ kill someone! I don’t  _ want to _ ! You can’t make me!” Myrtle was reaching a decibel previously unheard by human ears. 

“Darling! You don’t have to—I meant you—what I meant is—“ Now he was awkwardly patting her head as Ruth glared at him, rocking her baby girl. He sent his wife a desperate glance, but her eyes simply replied ‘ _ fix this’ _ . Yet, there was no chance to as Myrtle’s crying reached a crescendo and a loud CRACK sounded! The entire family gave a scream—a very manly scream in Frank’s case surely—as with a shower of glass the bedroom window shattered inwards. A sudden plunge into darkness also informed them that the hall light had shattered as well and it was a few more minutes before Ruth had suitably calmed her daughter  _ and  _ her husband enough to fetch a candle and light from the cupboard in the hallway and illuminate the situation. 

“Hm, you’ll have to fix this in the morning, love,” Ruth eyed the reflection of candlelight from a glittering array of glass shards. Her husband was gathering the larger ones in his hand. With a sigh, he nodded, depositing the pieces in Myrtle’s rubbish bin at his side.

“Right. I’m just trying to find the rock,” Frank pushed up off his knees. 

“The rock?”

“Yes. I think that must have been what it was. Those damned Clarke boys mucking about again.” 

“Frank!” Ruth hissed. “Language!” 

“What? She’s asleep,” Sure enough, their daughter was curled up in a little ball on top of the covers, a thumb in her mouth. Her dark hair was a mess from the ruckus and her round glasses were still perched on her nose. Oh. Ruth’s stern gaze melted at the sight. The older woman reached out, carefully plucking off the spectacles and placing them on the night table. 

“Should she sleep with us?” Her husband’s query made Ruth soften further and she sent him a small smile, the edges of her lips curved up slightly. 

“Yes, I don’t want her waking up early and stepping in that mess. The last thing we need is a hurt foot and more screaming.” Frank, dusting off his hands one final time, lifted Myrtle up into his arms, groaning slightly. 

“Our little girl is growing up,” He muttered under his mustache. 

“Oh hush, she’s nine. Maybe  _ you’re  _ losing your touch,” That was just the thing to say as Frank stood up straighter, the strain of his sleeping daughter apparently gone. Ruth led the way through the dark hallway to their own bedroom on the far right side of the house. She marveled for a moment that they’d been able to hear Myrtle’s cries. Deciding not to turn on her bedside lamp, she simply peeled back the covers for Frank to set their daughter down. As they both quietly climbed into bed, her husband reached across to snag her hand. The light snores of Myrtle broke the quiet. Not loud, they were a comforting background noise like a kitten’s purr. 

“When I get up tomorrow morning, I’ll go over and give those Clarke boys a proper thrashing. Have their mother at their throats,” Frank whispered fiercely. Ruth lifted their clasped hands to her lips and kissed his knuckles in acknowledgement. A few minutes passed, Myrtle gently snoring between them, Frank and Ruth brushing their thumbs over each other’s hands. Finally, Frank’s grip loosened and the roar of her husband’s snore cut through the bedroom. In the dark, Ruth’s lips broke into a grin, a sweet warmth fluttering through her. Oh, she loved that man. A pressure at her side informed her that Myrtle, her little cuddlebug, had snuggled closer. The older woman turned on her side to better hold her daughter, the weight of her a comfort. God, when she had heard the screaming a cold sweat had broken out all over her body. For a moment when she awoke, it was like she was driving an ambulance again and she half expected to hear the groans of wounded soldiers and the distant thundering of shells hitting the ground. She’d shaken Frank awake and they both stared at the other for a moment before he grabbed his gun and they dashed to Myrtle’s room. She’d never heard her baby wail like that, and then the window shattered. 

It prickled at Ruth’s brain: the screaming at the other end of the house, the dream, the window. She lay awake, listening to her husband and daughter’s breathing, puzzling over the strange events. It reminded her of something. A vague recollection of summers at a cousin’s house and flowers in unnatural colors. She attempted to follow the memory’s trail, but it was all too fuzzy. Before long, the early light of the morning sun was trailing through the lace curtains and Ruth, exhausted, joined her family in slumber. The word, the one she was trying to remember, on the tip of her tongue, slipped away. 

Hours later, after Myrtle had awoken cheery, nightmare forgotten, and Frank had scared the Clarke boys, Ruth did not ponder as she did the night before. She didn’t sit at her writing desk. She didn’t pull out a piece of stationary and didn’t pen a letter to her Aunt Florence detailing the night’s events and asking about those long ago summers. She didn’t wait for a reply dutifully and she certainly wasn’t surprised when a large, brown  _ owl  _ arrived carrying a letter. When she read it, she didn’t raise her eyebrows in shock and then furrow them in consideration. Ruth did not look at her daughter oddly, or watch for  _ something.  _ She never learned the word “magic”, and wasn’t put out at all when one of her husband’s “friends from the office” dropped by for an unannounced dinner. Instead, she had a delightful roast prepared, found the conversation suitable if not bland, and pushed the whole affair out of her mind.  _ Nothing was out of the ordinary _ . And it wasn’t. At least  _ not yet. _

* * *

  
  


This wasn’t the first time Myrtle Warren had performed accidental magic. It wasn’t even the first time her parents had seen it. In fact, over the years there had been quite a few bouts spurred by toddler tantrums and bullying at school. So many, that as he walked away from the two-story townhouse in Kensington, Chester Quigley said a small prayer to the heavens for Mrs. Warren’s short-term memory. The poor woman probably would have a lot of trouble with names in her later years. 

This wasn’t normally done. Usually, Muggleborn parents were allowed to witness their child’s accidental magic. But usually, they chalked up the strange occurrences to circumstance or their imagination. Ruth Warren was one of the rare Muggles that didn’t immediately dismiss what she’d seen and had the deplorable combination of curiosity and determination that led to writing a distant magical relative. Thus, Chester’s presence at Scarsdale Place. 

Tucking his wand into his jacket pocket, the wizard took a moment to curse muggle fashion. Mrs. Warren could cook a mean roast and his transfigured trousers were a bit tighter than his robes would’ve been post-meal. Still, it had been delightful. He always enjoyed his “visits” and the Warren household was nice and clean for a home without magic. 

Giving a last glance at the lit windows, he turned around the corner and made his way deeper into the city. Time to return to the ministry and file his report. He continued to the public toilets that housed the entrance. 

Yet, a frown tugged at the normally jovial face of Obliviator Quigley as he stepped into the toilet. Surely it couldn’t be good for a Muggle to be obliviated a dozen times? As a half-blood raised by his witch mother, he didn’t know much about Muggle brains besides their simplistic nature and he reasoned that repeated memory tampering could have bad side effects. The one time he asked Davies to cast the spell on him out of curiousity, he’d had a case of clumsiness that lasted a week and Davies had been written up. Maybe he should report it to Supervisor Peasegood? It couldn’t hurt to ask. Oh, but what if Peasegood thought him silly? Hm, Chester still hadn’t shed his reputation for knocking things over. Maybe he wouldn’t ask. 

Hitting the lever for the loo, he debated the issue back and forth in his head the entire time he descended. Dry, but conflicted when he walked into the Atrium he still hadn't made his choice. In the elevator alone, he became firm in his decision. He would definitely tell Peasegood, but when someone got on the next stop he was definitely opposed to saying something. Even as he exited onto the third level and made his way to the office, Chester was so consumed by his internal argument that he walked with his head bowed, muttering and gesturing as he argued. He was so focused, in fact, that he didn’t notice his boss Peasegood also approaching the office with a steaming cup of Buzzworth’s Wizard Coffee. With a shout, the two collided, hot liquid dashing over both of them. 

“Oh Mr. Peasegood, sir, I’m so sorry!” Chester immediately began to pat his supervisor dry with his hands, taking the edge of his transfigured blazer to the soaked robes. 

“Chester, Chester—“ The other man attempted to get Chester’s attention, but he was too busy panicking. 

“I just wasn’t watching where I was going, sir, terrible sorry about that. I’m just so exhausted, you see. Late nights at work combined with helping my brother with our mum, I hardly have the—“ 

“Chester, it’s fine,” stressed Peasegood. “Just get off me.” 

“Right, very good, sir, of course, sir,” The Obliviator backed off and helped his boss to his feet. Peasegood simply freed his wand from his pocket and with a wave and muttered “ _ Tergo _ ,” he cleaned the mess off of the two of them. 

“Right,” Chester paused. He looked into the stern face of the other man, observing the lines carved into his face from exhaustion. Remembering something about Peasegood having a new baby, a boy, he felt uncertain. 

“Did you have something to say to me, Quigley?” 

“Oh, um—“

“Still bunglin’ about, Quigs?” A colleague, Roger Moon, shouted jokingly through the semi-open office door. “We thought tha’ spell had worn off! Do we need to drop ye off at Mungo’s?”

A flash of irritation sparked through Chester at the teasing comment. It had been over a year since the incident! 

“No! Just got back from the assignment you sent me on, sir,” He refocused his attention on Peasegood. His boss quirked a brow. “Actually, it’s been the twelfth time I’ve been sent to that household and I was wondering—“

“Twelfth? Are ye sure yer doin’ yer job right?” Moon had come to lean on the door jamb, offering a condescendingly concerned look. Chester opened his mouth to give Roger a piece of his mind when Peasegood interrupted. 

“Chester, why don’t you come into my office and we’ll discuss this?” He waved him inside. “And Moon, don’t you have work to be doing?” 

Moon looked properly scolded at that, ducking back into his workspace, and Chester followed his boss. When they were both seated, Peasegood gestured for him to speak. 

“Well,” He started awkwardly, “it might sound silly, but we’ve been sent to this Warren household a dozen times now, sir. The charm always sticks, don’t worry about that,” Chester assured him, “but I’m worried we might be doing harm to the Muggle mother with all of this fiddling in her head—“

“Hm,” His boss hummed thoughtfully. “Warren, you say?” Chester nodded. “I’ll look into it. You go back to your desk and file your report.” 

“Are you sure, sir? I don’t want to cause a fuss.” To his surprise, the man across from him snorted. It was perhaps the closest approximation to a laugh Chester had ever seen from the serious man. 

“I’m sure. We’ll sort this out.” A wave of relief passed over the Obliviator and he rose as he was dismissed. 

“Thank you, sir. I know it’s silly to worry about it, but I’ve been over there so often they’ve started to feel like, well, like family, sir, for Muggles that is.” He gave a little bow to his boss, but as he approached the door he turned around one more time, mouth open. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll ask Ogden about it this afternoon,” Peasegood cut him off. With a wave of his wand he opened the door, pushed his subordinate out, and shut it behind him. 

Safely on the other side and with his conscience sated, Chester Quigley gave himself a quiet pat on the back. There! Ruth Warren and her dangerously delicious roasts would be in expert hands with Peasegood  _ and  _ Ogden on the case. At that, he put the matter out of his head entirely, feeling a craving for an evening cup of tea. Decided, he made his way back to the elevator to visit the canteen. 

However, back in the office for the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Arthur Peasgood was receiving an emergency Floo call from his wife. Their son had apparently broken out in a terrible case of Whisple Rash and she’d taken him, crying, to St. Mungo’s. Arthur Peasegood never opened the Warren file, never even took it out of the cabinet. Instead, he rushed to the hospital that Friday evening and dealt with his son’s illness. Thankfully a Soothing Balm was able to be used and he was right as rain the next day. The relief of that endeavor carried Arthur Peasegood through the weekend to Monday where he arrived at work with a smile. Chester, seeing this, had his mind put at ease that the Warrens were dealt with, and he didn’t mention their case again. 

Across the city, however, in that two-story townhouse in Kensington, Mrs. Warren cleaned up from that fateful roast dinner and retired early for the evening, complaining of a headache. This headache developed into a full blown migraine over the weekend. It would fade, with time, but return viciously. Many physicians were contacted, even spiritualists and midwives as the Warrens got more desperate. Eventually, Ruth Warren was confined to bed rest. She would remain so the rest of her life. 

  
  



End file.
